Joining with friends in a glorious leaf-lit walk on the High Park Labyrinth in Toronto, a certain move toward waking touched my poet’s heart. This waking began with a rustling of autumn leaves, a lavish Sun drawing Mercurial speech, a hard look at structures of modernity that may no longer be useful. With a new Moon, we enteed into a Mandala-like waking of deep and sometimes uncomfortable possibilities. With the migrating Red-Tailed Hawk, the afternoon slithering of the sunning serpant, I could sense an ensouled world trying to draw a shared speech into being. I’d like to share this with you.
We ward off wakefulness
peer through the slash in the waiting field
like the Moon
on her haunches
ignoring the Sun.
Then night leaves
gathering her pride of dreams
the foam of her waves of possibilities
her language of soil-bearing medals.
The handful of wakefulness we are
shatters the night
scattes words like stars
for we are the Waking Poets
living Mandalas, blood red, distant deep blue, rings of directed flight.
Our destination is carried in the conversation of trees
in the blood where rustling, shimmering, become words.
Our blood seeps into the soil as eyes begin to speak,
our palm-carved lifelines
dialoguing with Earth.
By Lutia Lausane, copyright Just Peachy Productions, journey through All Soul’s week, 2016